Truth in Letters
by Phantomholdsmyheart2743
Summary: Christine writes her Erik a letter after the fall of the chandelier brings things into perspective. COMPLETE. E/C Semi-fluff. Mature Christine.


**A/N: I'm having a bit of trouble in my personal life with sending a letter to someone who means a great deal to me. I wrote this to explore a few ideas. Please review. It really does make me smile to know that someone reads these!**

 _Letters_

Christine Daae stared at the blank parchment before her and almost screamed in frustration. What could she say? What could she do? She hadn't seen Erik since the unmasking, though she was sure that he had been there that night on the roof. She could have sworn that as her lips met Raoul's she could hear Erik's voice curling around the syllables of her name.

The hairs on the back of her neck stood up, goosebumps exploding across her bandaged arms. Oh, they stang! But the tears that now welled in her eyes were not for the pain, but in regret. She knew. She had known that he loved her, betrayed him regardless. Had said terrible things about her Erik. Her teacher. Her angel. She looked at the bandages again, knowing that seeing her bleed would break his heart; he would never intentionally hurt her. Not like she always seemed to be hurting him.

She buried her head in her hands and sobbed in earnest. Consequences. That's what life was about when you got right down to it: consequences of love. On the most basic level she knew that she could never marry Raoul. She had duties and desires that surpassed what he could offer her; he wasn't a child of music. Raoul could never know the sublime satisfaction of slipping out of oneself and soaring past the ceiling by sound alone. Would never understand the dimension of her relationship with Erik.

But he suspected. Love of the most exquisite kind, he had said. He knew, and hearing him say it made everything far more evident to her in that moment. It was clarified when the handsome boy's lips had left her cold, when everything about Raoul's kiss was eclipsed by one whispered word across a winter's night. The mere thought of Erik made her tremble, and she was grown enough now to realize what that meant.

She needed a way to tell him, but it was so hard to find the proper words to write! To formulate her thoughts. It was dark, and the candlelight bounced across her desk; the mirror glowed from across the room. She glanced at it, wishing that Erik was there, but knew he wasn't. There was a different type of silence when he was around, soft and smooth as a sip of cocoa. The silence now was splintered with strange noises and the uneasy creaks of the opera house. Everyone had gone home after the chandelier, all of the performers, dancers; those who lived in the opera house had pooled resources to rent rooms, sure that there was more misfortune to come.

Raoul had wanted her to leave. She had lied to him, saying she would go to her apartment. He believed her too easily, and she had the cab take her around the back of the building, where she had slipped inside once more.

She wanted to go and find Erik, she wanted to tell him so many things, but she was a coward in many ways. She could never find her voice when she needed it most.

Raoul looked at her and didn't see her. Erik saw her, he saw her ambition, her talent, her broken pieces: he loved her anyway. Raoul only saw Lotte. He wanted to marry her. She knew that marrying Raoul would slowly erode her, piece by elegant piece until she was nothing but the china doll he saw when he looked at her.

She picked up her pencil, chewed and stubby from rehearsal notes and marking music. She needed some way to apologize to Erik, to make him understand. She heard a creak.

"Erik?" She called hopefully, even as she knew he was far too careful to make the slightest sound.

Sighing in disappointment, she began to write.

 _Dearest Erik._

 _I am not marrying Raoul, and I am sorry that I kissed him. When his lips touched mine, I felt myself detaching, and I could hear you call my name. You were there._

 _I have come to realize what you have known since meeting me: I could never bind myself to a man who could not understand music. I need someone who knows what it is like to sing and feel the earth caving in around them, someone who has stayed up all night trying to capture a melody._

 _Oh Erik, I miss you! Not only since the last time we spoke, but all of the time. I miss your voice, and your laugh; the way you smile. Every time I'm close to you, I want to be closer. You draw me to you, my angel, with your quiet calm and your gentle hands._

 _I remember watching you play, and your hands swayed over the keys. So precise and sharp. I have always considered you more than a friend, Erik. I wanted you to be mine, always. When I thought you were an angel, I used to dream of you choosing to forsake Heaven to love me. And now that you are a man, I toss and turn in bed at night and see you before me. I can't rest anymore. There is little solace in dreams for me now._

 _I am not afraid of you, Erik, I could never be afraid. Nor could I hate you; I have to tell you the truth: I love you. I've always loved you. There could never be anyone else for me, but you. You, the darkness in me; the passion I hide, everything you are. If I tremble when we speak, if I flush red at the touch of your hand, if I faint at the power of your voice: it is because you overwhelm me. I make myself sick with the wanton things I imagine._

 _It would disgrace you… No, I don't suppose it would. You've always understood me better than anyone I have never met. You have always listened, you have never silenced me. You have helped me sing._

 _I've been so foolish, so naive, so pathetically weak. It took a falling chandelier and a kiss to make me admit to what I have always concealed deep within me. I want you more than I want to sing, and that is almost blasphemous to the both of us. Your past, your face, your broken pieces-I want every piece of you. I hope that you want in turn all the broken pieces of me._

 _I love you, my angel. My Erik. Phantom or not, I want to kiss you._

 _Yours til our music ends._

 _Christine_

Hand now cramped, she put the pencil down and carefully folded the letter. She would slip it beneath the mirror perhaps. Christine sealed the letter quickly, blushing to think of its contents.

Should she send it at all? Could her heart take it if he did not love her enough? She scratched his name on the front, and leaned it against the mirror of her vanity. She would decide in the morning.

Exhausted, she felt her body thicken with sleep. Tomorrow was the final thought she had before slipping into an exhausted sleep.

Twenty minutes later, the mirror clicked open. A masked man entered, saw her sleeping, and smiled. But she was shivering! Dear, sweet, Christine. He had not expected to find her there, but covered her with his cloak regardless, hoping that when she woke she would not be affronted. Guilt consumed him when he saw the stained bandages that covered her bare arms, the scratch on her temple. What had he done? Before tonight he would have carried her to her room in his home, but now she would not trust being alone with him. And could he blame her?

As he turned to leave he saw a letter with his name, and took it. Whatever its contents, it had been meant for him. The Opera Ghost always took what was his.


End file.
